


Death In The Family

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, F/M, Funeral, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean kept his promise. He hasn’t contacted Sam since he left for Stanford four years ago.<br/>Things change when Jessica Moore dies in a house fire.<br/>Suddenly Dean and his childhood best friend Castiel are called to California to help plan the funeral of a girl neither of them knew, for the sake of a boy that neither of them has heard from in years. Over the course of these few short days they learn a few things about life, death, grief, and love above all.<br/><i>“Death is a challenge. It tells us not to waste time. It tells us to tell each other right now that we love each other.” Leo Buscaglia</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com)

“Hey, come here and help me with this!” Dean called into the apartment, struggling with the four bags of groceries in his hands, keys dangling precariously from his left index finger. With his tongue peeking out from between his lips in concentration, he kicked the front door shut with his toe. It slammed wearily behind his back, and a pale pair of arms shot out to steady him. A few of the bags transferred between them.

“You could have made two trips,” Castiel grumbled in front of him, dark hair poking up around the paper bags he held in front of his face.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Two trips are for the weak, Cas,” he said, following his roommate into the kitchen. “Thanks,” he added, placing his bags gently on the counter. The new bagger down at Dillon’s was some pimple-faced freshman that apparently did not know that eggs were supposed to go at the _top_ of the bag so they wouldn’t get crushed. Unbelievable.

Dean and Cas put the groceries away together, brushing elbows and swiping past one another to get from one end of the small room to the other. Their apartment in Lawrence was cramped but affordable, and with time they’d learned how to move around one another. It was a choreographed dance they’ve had years to practice.

Besides, Castiel had always had a bit of a problem with personal space.

Castiel squinted critically at the eggplant down in his hand. “This is already spotting,” he informed Dean.

Dean frowned, struggling to tip the bag of rice into the top cabinet without knocking over their blender in the process. “Aren’t you gonna bake it? Who cares?”

“I wasn’t planning on eating this until Wednesday,” Cas told him, sticking it in the fridge anyway.

Dean rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you were planning on eating it _ever_ ,” he mumbled to himself. Cas was going through some sort of organic phase. Eight dollars for a vegetable that Dean wasn’t even going to eat; damn, he was a great friend.

“We can’t all live on cheeseburgers,” Cas said, almost wistfully, as he tossed the leftover bags into their recycle bin. “And we have to support the local growers, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t help the little smile that wormed its way onto his face. “Yeah, I know, Cas.” He shut the pantry door carefully – to make up for the way he’d mistreated the front door earlier – and followed Cas into the living room. “So what’d you do today?” he asked, clicking on the TV. This was their daily ritual: come home, sit down, talk with the TV on.

Dean wouldn’t change it for the world. This was all he had.

“Nothing too exciting. Forwarded some emails, cleaned up some spreadsheets, avoided another company dinner,” Castiel said, curling his bare feet up under him on the couch. “How’s the Mustang?”

Dean shrugged. “Alternator’s still giving me trouble. New parts shouldn’t be in for another couple of days, even though I _told_ Mark it had to be a rushed job.”

Castiel copied Dean’s shrug and ran a hand through his own hair. “I’m sure your client will understand that this kind of delicate work takes time.” There was no judgment in his voice, no sarcasm. Castiel only ever said exactly what he meant.

“Yeah,” Dean conceded, flipping through the channels lazily. “Wait, stop,” Castiel commanded, once they got to the soap station. “I haven’t seen this one yet,” he elaborated.

“Oh, dude,” Dean gasped. “Ricardo,” he said by means of explanation.

“What happened?” Cas demanded.

“Suicidio,” Dean said sadly. He’d already seen this episode. It was a real tearjerker.

Castiel tutted sympathetically, crossed his arms, and leaned back into the couch. “Is he the one with the dead sister?” he asked.

“No, no, that’s Carlos,” Dean said, eyes glued to the screen. Cas tilted his head and watched as a blonde woman he absolutely recognized but couldn’t remember the name of bent over a still man in a hospital bed, wailing to nobody. He picked absentmindedly at a thread unraveling at the hem of his sweater.

There was a low ringing noise somewhere, and Dean ignored it. He didn’t even really hear it until Castiel poked him with his foot. “Get the phone,” he demanded, barely tearing his eyes away from the television set.

“Is that ours?” Dean asked, tumbling out of his seat in his rush to get to the landline in the kitchen. “I thought that was the TV.”

Castiel snorted at him just as he picked up the receiver. “Hello?” Dean chirped.

For a minute Dean couldn’t tell if there was even anybody on the line; the woman on TV was still crying, and after a moment Dean realized that wracked sobs were coming from the phone _too_ , echoing weirdly like the caller was in a bathroom. “Dean?” the voice choked.

He would know that voice anywhere.

“Sammy? What’s wrong, what’s going on?” he fretted, gripping the receiver tighter. In the back of his mind he registered Castiel muting the TV.

“It’s –” a hiccup. “Jess. It’s Jessica, oh god, Dean –” his brother sobbed.

Dean shook his head rapidly. “Sam, come on, _words_. Tell me what happened,” he instructed firmly.

“Jess!” Sam said. “Just in the middle of the night, that awful – she’s dead, she’s gone.”

Dean didn’t speak, didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know who Jessica _was_ , and he was still a little shocked that he was hearing from SAM right now. His little brother was hurting, bad, and there was nothing Dean could do about it, no enemy he could fight from right here on the phone 2000 miles away. “I can’t do this by myself. Please, man, I need help,” Sam continued, already sounding like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

“I’m coming, Sam, ok?” Dean said. “What’s your address?”

“Seven oh one – no, seven fourteen Clark Way,” Sam said.

As much as Dean didn’t want to get off the phone, he had to pack. He had to get in his car _right now._ He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, trying their damndest to melt through the phone.

“Don’t do anything stupid. I can be there tomorrow,” he said, before hanging up. He spun around, and Castiel was already jumping off the couch.

“Sam?” he inquired, eyebrows raised.

Dean shrugged, feet oddly rooted to the spot. “I have to. Um. He needs me to go out and see him.” He shook his head, trying to shake off the odd paralysis taking him over, like a cold bucket of water had just been dumped over him. “Something happened. Jessica died,” he explained, knowing it wouldn’t make the situation any clearer. Cas wouldn’t know who that was either. It had been four years, and his baby brother was a stranger to the both of them.

Castiel made a movement like he wanted to get closer to Dean, but instead squared his shoulders and moved around the couch. “I’ll pack a bag,” he said.

 _I’m coming with you,_ he meant.

Castiel disappeared into his bedroom, and Dean watched the blonde woman on TV faint to the floor.


	2. Denial

Castiel was on the phone for hours after they left, calling Bobby and his guys at the shop, frantically explaining that they wouldn’t be around for the next couple of days. “Hello, this is Castiel Novak, I’m calling on behalf of Dean Winchester,” he had said, like a question, to Mark on the phone.

“Hello, this is Castiel Novak. May I speak with Hannah?” he had said, some time later. “I won’t be coming in tomorrow, or for the next few days… Yes, Hannah, I understand that the sales reports are to be printed on Thursday, but you’re going to have to find someone else to edit them,” he said in his all-powerful righteous voice. “There’s been a death in the family,” he must have said a thousand times.

Dean clutched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, and clenched his teeth until they crossed into Utah.

Castiel had stopped talking by then of course, and Dean could feel him watching his face, could practically hear the wheels spinning frenetically in his freaky little head. “Quit looking at me like that,” he snapped. He regretted it instantly.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, like he meant it. “Would you like me to call your father?”

Dean just scoffed.

Cas nodded and folded his hands in his lap, ruffling the lapels of his trench coat. “I know you’ve missed him, Dean, but try to remember the reason for your visit,” he reminded him softly.

Dean took a deep breath through his nose so he wouldn’t bite Cas’s head off. “I got it, Cas. Not here to make friends.”

“So long as you know.”

Castiel turned and looked out the window. It was sprinkling out; little drops of rain dotted his window. He raised a finger and reached to poke one in the center, and his fingertip only met cool glass.

They drove through the night, barely stopped. They got gas and water only, peed off the side of the road. Castiel used his fancy new phone to look up news in the Stanford area while Dean was driving. There were several obituary announcements, to their horror, for the night before. Apparently a house fire had gotten out of control and engulfed a series of apartments just off Stanford campus. Reportedly, Jessica Moore, 21, was among those who had lost their lives in the fire.

There was barely even a body to bury.

Dean stayed awake for a long time, even as Castiel tipped his head against the windowpane. The adrenaline and shock was still coursing through him long after the phone call in his kitchen had ended. Somewhere around Elko, Castiel insisted on driving so that Dean could get some rest. He was no use to Sam dead on his feet, he’d said, and they both tensed a little at the expression. Perhaps it wasn’t the best choice of words, but Cas got his point across. He drove them the rest of the way to California.

Clark Way was littered with ash, strewn on the sidewalk like confetti; abandoned blankets and pieces of paper dumped in gutters like a parade had just rolled through, though they both knew better by now. They pulled up in front of seven fourteen, a nice one bedroom with a pointed roof and big windows, painted an earthy brown. It was cute, picturesque. Dean still couldn’t really picture Sam living here.

Nervously, he ascended the little staircase and spared a glance back at Castiel, who was gripping a small pot of yellow flowers he had thought to pick up at a roadside market before they arrived. They shared a short, significant look, and Dean knocked on the door, preparing for the worst.

The door swung open, and Dean was staring at a man so different from the one he’d known four years ago.

Sam Winchester had always been tall, but he absolutely _towered_ over Dean now by a good three inches or so. He had to look _up_ at his baby brother. His shoulders had broadened and his hair was longer, mussed and swooped to the side. Most confusing of all, he was smiling – white pearly teeth framed by a tanned face.

“Hey, Dean,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically neutral. There wasn’t a trace of grief on him. He was dressed, shaved, and even looked happy to see his brother. Not beaming, exactly, but that was to be expected. Had Dean imagined the sobbing, wrecked kid he’d heard on the phone the night before?

“Hey, Sam,” Dean replied as casually as he could.

“Cas!” he continued. “Haven’t seen you in years.”

Castiel shuffled nervously, knowing that particular remark would strike a chord with Dean.

Sam seemed to notice the rigid set of Dean’s shoulders too and stepped back into the apartment. “Here, come on, come on in,” he said, already fleeing into the house.

Dean glanced back at Castiel one more time. Something was definitely wrong here.

The two of them stepped carefully over the threshold, taking the small place in. There were only two boxes in the living room, mostly packed, and a bunch of clothes draped over the back of a leather couch. Dean followed his brother into the kitchenette, still holding his and Cas’s duffle bags in his hands. Castiel shuffled after him while hanging on to the flowers.

He placed them awkwardly on a side table and dropped his hands to his sides. Sam was already chattering away.

“Sorry about the mess, guys, I probably should have picked up a little… How was the drive? It’s not a short one. We’re supposed to get rain later this week, I hope it didn’t hit you early or anything,” he rambled. His words were toneless, blurring together, like he didn’t care for the answers – like he was just reading from a script. Safe, impeccable conversation.

He had his back to the two of them and started digging through the fridge. There was nothing in there but a few eggs, a half-finished carton of orange juice. “Uh, I haven’t been shopping yet today, but maybe we could order take out…?” he suggested, finally facing Dean. He brushed his hands through his hair and smiled too wide again, resting his hands on the kitchen table.

He was too jumpy. His eyes kept flicking up to Dean and away. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“That’s ok,” Dean said carefully, finally speaking, not wanting to spook him.

Cas nodded his agreement. “We’re, um. Sorry for your loss,” he said. Dean nudged him indiscreetly with his elbow, shaking his head just barely.

Sam’s smile wavered. “Yeah, um, thanks. And I saw the, um. The flowers. Nice, thank you.”

The three of them stood in the kitchen, silence settling around them once again. Sam clenched his jaw and smiled again. “I’m fine, really.”

The following silence was not so convincing.

Sam cleared his throat and gestured behind him with his thumb. “Bathroom’s down that way. And… there’s only one bedroom but the couch is a pull out.”

Dean nodded, looking around the little apartment contentedly. It was nice. Not lived in, but nice.

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel answered for him. He didn’t trust Dean to say anything else.

“Hope you weren’t… you know, in the middle of anything important,” Sam said quietly, staring at his brother’s profile. It’s not like he knew what Dean was doing any better than Dean knew what _he_ was doing. As if sensing the look, Dean turned back around, and Sam looked down at the table, between his hands.

Dean frowned. “No, not really. Always got time for you, little bro,” he said, smiling.

Sam didn’t answer, only shook his head a little. “I’m uh… I’m pretty tired. I’m gonna head to bed,” he said, pushing away from the table. He kept looking at the ground, and rubbed the back of his neck with one giant hand. “You guys need help setting anything up?” he asked wearily.

“No, thank you,” Castiel answered. Dean shook his head in agreement, and Cas saw the hurt in his eyes.

Sam nodded, pleased. “Ok. Night, guys.”

“Goodnight Sam,” Cas said, Dean mumbling along with him. Sam raised his eyes for a fraction of a second and then padded away down the hall, shutting a door behind him.

Dean immediately whirled around to Castiel and dropped their bags to the floor. “This was a mistake,” he declared, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Dean,” Castiel started.

“Cas, did you _see_ him? What am I supposed to say?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “What am I _doing_ here?”

Castiel put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and looked him right in the eye, in the way that always makes Dean uncomfortable but docile. “You’re here to support your brother, who has just endured a terrible loss. Grief is an incremental process, Dean. We’re going to be here for him.”

Dean shook his head slightly, not breaking the eye contact. “He doesn’t want me here. He hates me, remember?”

“He doesn’t,” Castiel insisted. “He never did. It’s just been awhile.” With a sigh, he let go of Dean’s shoulders and took a step back. He leaned up against the table, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “We are a team, Dean. We’ll help him through it.”

Dean regarded his friend for a moment and nodded, running the same hand through his hair again and again – a nervous habit, Castiel knew. “Yeah. Ok.”

Cas pushed off the table and cradled Dean’s elbow in his hand. “Come on. Sam’s alive and relatively all in one piece. Get some sleep; things will be better in the morning,” he soothed, steering him towards the couch.

“You sure about that?” Dean asked dryly.

Castiel hummed an affirmative and set to work clearing off the couch, carefully setting the clothing and boxes on the floor. “Positive,” he replied.

They changed and brushed their teeth, taking turns in Sam’s small bathroom, and then Dean flopped down beside Castiel on the lumpy couch springs. “‘S not too bad,” he commented, wriggling around.

Castiel kicked him. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t hog the blankets,” Dean enunciated, turning onto his side. Back in their college days, he and Cas had fallen asleep together – while watching movies or blasted out of their minds – one too many times for him to know better.

“No promises,” Cas grumbled from around his pillow. The couch was small; Dean had to scoot down so his butt wasn’t directly touching Cas’s (weird) and his feet kind of hung off the end. Their bare, hairy calves still rubbed together despite his best efforts.

“Night, Cas,” Dean grumbled, resigned to this fate.

He didn’t get the chance to see the fond little smile Castiel hid in the folds of his pillow.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

 

Sam woke up the next morning, and he could almost pretend for a second that everything was ok.

The other side of the bed was warm, but not too warm, like when the sunbeams through the windows would keep it warm after Jess had already gotten up to shower before her 8 AM class. This room looked exactly like their old one; the bed was even in the same position. If he strained his ears, he could almost hear her humming Smoke On The Water down the hall.

(Of course he couldn’t. That side of the bed was warm, but it hadn’t been slept in.)

Sam stretched his arms above his head – so he wouldn’t have to feel the emptiness out to the side – and rubbed his hands down his face. He hadn’t slept well. He was still a tad sore; he wasn’t in the hospital for very long, since his minor burns and scrapes were not any great cause for concern, but the fatigue was hitting him hard. His chest still chafed when he breathed in, almost like his lungs were rejecting the very air. Every pore of him felt guilty for his life.

After the first responders called Mr. and Mrs. Moore and Sam was released from the hospital, they took him home and sat him down with some hot chocolate as they all tried to figure out what to do. They all spent a decent amount of time together; he’d gone to dinner at Jess’ parents’ house often and sometimes treated Mr. Moore to a few rounds of golf off campus while the girls went shopping, even though he doesn’t really like golf. He was worried they might blame him for what happened, but it actually seemed like the contrary: they thanked him for the effort he made to recover Jessica and wanted his help in planning the funeral. They thought Sam of all people would best “do her memory justice.”  
Her poor parents had enough on their plates, contacting all their family members and picking out a casket for their little girl. Numb, Sam told them he would help in any way he could. He had a whole list of things he was supposed to get done for them as quickly as possible, but all he really wanted to do was lay in his warm-but-not-warm double bed.

It was supposed to get better, wasn’t it? Jess had been gone for a whole two days plus. He had cut the white plastic bracelet off his wrist _hours_ ago. But his head kept pounding and his ribcage kept aching.

He sat up slowly, like a zombie, and threw off the covers. The floor was cold under his feet. He hadn’t turned the heat on yet, hadn’t trusted it enough. The fire, they said, had been electrical in nature.

He opened the door and walked to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, where he stopped stock still at the sight before him.

Dean was hunched over the stove, actually humming to himself, and Castiel was seated at the kitchen counter with a mug of hot coffee between his hands. He looked like he just went eight rounds in the ring: his hair was everywhere, he had dark bruise-like bags under his eyes, and for the life of him looked like he’d rather be anywhere but in this kitchen.

He looked kind of like how Sam felt, honestly.

Dean must have heard him come in, because he looked up and grinned. “Morning, Sammy! Eggs?”

Sam, still hazy and stunned, nodded and took a seat next to Cas. “Sure,” he said, to the apparition that must have been his brother.

He vaguely remembered calling Dean on the night of the fire. There was no one to talk to but there were so many people, all of them just asking questions like his name and if there was any pain in his chest, they wouldn’t answer any of HIS questions, why won’t they _listen,_ where’s Jess–

And then there was a knock at the door and Sam remembered that Dean had made him a promise. Dean doesn’t break his promises, not ever. And where Dean goes, Cas follows. That’s the way things have always been, and it was kind of comforting that these things, at least, hadn’t changed.

So there they all were, in Sam’s dumpy replacement kitchen, cooking breakfast like the old days. Like he’d never even left Kansas, like Jessica had never even happened in the first place. It was all a little surreal.

Sam palmed the material of his pajama pants as Dean set a plate in front of him, twisting to turn off the range and handling the skillet like a dance partner. “Did you go shopping?” Sam asked, noticing the onions and peppers on the counter behind his brother, the milk and weird creamer Sam would never buy still out by the coffee machine.

Dean nodded and handed him a fork. “Yep! Got up bright and early. Ain’t that right, Cas?”

Castiel grunted, blew over the surface of his coffee, and took a long sip. He barely even acknowledged Sam’s presence. Geez, he forgot how much of a _morning person_ his brother could be.

“Huh,” Sam said, picking up the fork with a strange sense of detachment.

His omelet was perfect, flavorful and smooth, but it still stuck in Sam’s throat when he tried to swallow. He cleared his throat and pushed the plate away from him slightly, leaning on his elbows. “I’ve, um… got some things to do today,” he announced.

Dean nodded, already setting to work wiping down the counters and putting things back into the fridge. “Figured as much. Need any help?”

Cas blinked slowly. “We’d be happy do some leg work,” he croaked in his sleepy, just-gargled-with-gravel voice.

Sam shook his head, trying to organize himself. “I have to go to… Rebecca’s and Brady’s. They’re not too far away, they’re only down the –” Sam cut himself off, shaking his head. “Wait, no, Rebecca is staying with her aunt outside of town until the university can provide housing for her. It’s at least a two hour drive there and back,” he said, picking apart his omelet with his fork just for something to do. His stomach rumbled.

Dean leaned back on the counter and frowned. “What else d’you have to do today?”

Sam waved a hand. “Uh, I was supposed to go to the funeral home today. Straighten some things out. You know. Gotta get a suit. Flowers.” He speared a pepper and popped it into his mouth to keep more words from falling out. He loves bell peppers. Dean knows this. The one pressed against his tongue tasted like spring but it went down like ash.

“We can go to the funeral place,” Dean offered. “Sounds like you’re going to be pretty busy.”

Cas nodded in agreement with his brother and pushed his mug away. Dean reached over and took it for him, rinsing it out in the sink while Cas turned to face Sam. “We’ll follow any instructions you might have to the letter, of course,” he promised. “There’s no reason you should wear yourself out trying to be everywhere at once,” he said kindly. He was trying to be accommodating. Sam hated it.

“Yeah, ok.” He folded far too easily. Truth is, he hadn’t wanted to get anywhere near that place, when he knew that Jessica’s cold body was shoved in a locker in some back room. He knew her parents hadn’t wanted to go near it for the same reason. If Dean and Cas were offering, fine. Cas is meticulous with directions anyway.

Dean finished stowing away Cas’s mug in the cabinet and turned back around to participate in the conversation. “Great. We’ll head out as soon as Cas gets conscious.”

Castiel grumbled something under his breath, and Sam might have smiled if it were different circumstances.

There was a knock at the door, and Sam wasn’t any less caught off guard than the first time this happened.

“Geez, Sammy, how many people you having over?” Dean joked, already headed for the door. Sam got up, about to stop his brother from answering – who knows who it could be – but Cas grabbed his forearm and gently shook his head, nodding back down at Sam’s stool. Too weak to argue with him, Sam sat.

Dean wrenched open the door and a perfectly coifed elderly woman, pearls around her neck and all, held a red ceramic dish with plastic wrap over top. There was some sort of potato-y macaroni looking thing in there, and Dean’s eyes flicked from the lump to the woman’s face, cheery and wrinkled. “Oh, I’m sorry. Does Samuel Winchester live here?” she asked, in a voice rough and low like it used to be sexy back in the day.

Dean cleared his throat, shaking his head free of the weird thoughts. “Uh, yes, he does. I’m his brother, Dean.”

The woman gave him an impressed look, and scrutinized him head to toe in a way that just this side of inappropriate. “My. I hadn’t realized good genes ran in the family.”

Dean smiled uncomfortably at her. “Um. Yeah. So, that for Sam?” he asked, gesturing to the dish.

The woman tutted and nodded down at it. “Yes, poor thing. I figured now that he doesn’t have Jess, he could use a little… feminine touch,” she explained. Dean blanched at the double entendre. “A good meal can having healing effects on the soul.” She appraised Dean again, and smirked knowingly. “You look like a man who knows how to appreciate a good meal,” she observed.

Dean reached out and took the casserole from her. “Right. I’m just gonna. Take this,” he mumbled, retreating back into the apartment. “Thanks for stopping by…”

“Gert Case, darling. You tell Sam that Gertrude stopped by,” she called after him, sneaking a peak at his ass.

“Alright,” Dean muttered, shutting the door behind him. With a little huff, he walked back into the kitchen and deposited the casserole disdainfully on the counter. “Ms. Case dropped this off for you,” he informed his brother, who immediately got even paler than he was before (which Dean honestly hadn’t thought possible). “At least now you don’t have to go to the store later,” he grumbled, piling dirty pans and things into the sink.

Cas could tell immediately that something was up, but didn’t want to ask in front of Sam. Whatever had spoiled Dean’s good mood would probably only weigh Sam down more, and Cas would try to spare him at least some of that burden. “These mourners seem very… direct,” Castiel said. “I don’t think we would receive nearly the same show of kindness in our neighborhood,” he postulated, glancing up at Dean’s back and waiting for his commentary.

Dean snorted as he scrubbed the bottom of the skillet. “That’s because we’re hermits, Cas. I don’t think our neighbors even know your last name.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “They probably assume it’s Winchester.”

Dean barked out a quick laugh and Sam found his lips turning up in a little smirk. The gesture, for some reason, felt wrong and out of place on his face, and he quickly dropped it. He shouldn’t be smiling at a time like this.

(Jessica would never smile at him like that again.)

Sam cleared his throat and stood, and Castiel let him this time. “Well, if you guys are serious about going to the home today, I have all of the… stuff right here,” he said, padding into the living room. There was a desk in the corner, one that he and Jess had picked out together but sent to storage before the fire. He needed a new desk for his apartment so he had to take this one out, and he tried desperately to keep his emotional register shut down as he picked the yellow envelope of documents off the wooden surface. The last thing he needed right now was to remember how it felt to have Jess’s head resting on his shoulder, both hands twined over his one while they picked out furniture in Ikea for their home together.

They were going to move it in after graduation.

A lump grew in his throat as his eyes lingered over the curves of the wood. Her smile, her manicured hands running over the finish. He squared his shoulders and walked back into the kitchen, placing the envelope in Cas’s waiting hands. Dean looked like he was finishing up with the dishes, and was drying his hands on one of Sam’s mint green dishtowels.

He was still _watching_ him. Sam really wished he would stop; his big brother had a talent for understanding him a little too well, and he was set on pretending that everything was fine. He was going to get through this. He didn’t need Dean analyzing him. He locked his feelings down deeper and hoped it wouldn’t show on his face.

Cas gingerly tugged out some of the files the Moores had entrusted him with – information for Jessica’s death certificate, a personal tribute for the newspaper, specifications about the memorial service and list of attendees for her funeral  – and inspected them briefly. Blessedly, Dean leaned over to study them with him.

“Seems like they’ve covered just about everything,” Dean murmured, tossing the dishtowel back onto the counter. Sam frowned at the wet heap. Jessica always used to fold them, place them back where she got them. He opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it.

“When should we expect you back from your friend’s?” Cas asked him.

Sam shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, probably not that late. I want to be quick.”

Another silence dropped over the three of them, and Sam cleared his throat. “Jess’s parents also wanted me to write a eulogy,” he felt compelled to add.

Dean’s eyebrows went up a little. “Wow. So, uh, you’ll be working on that later too, huh?”

Sam nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, I should… probably get started,” he told him.

The three of them stayed huddled in the kitchen for a while, and Sam jerked a thumb behind him, in the direction of their – his – bedroom. “Thanks for breakfast. I should, um. Get dressed.”

Dean nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes darted over to Sam’s plate; he barely touched a thing. “Yeah, no problem. We’ll get out of your hair for a while.”

Sam nodded gratefully and tried his best to smile, to tell his brother not to worry about him – because no matter how long they’d been apart or how mad at him Dean still was, he would never stop worrying. “Good luck out there,” he said. “Watch out for any more casserole-toting cougars.”

Dean sighed. “Why do I get the feeling that was only the beginning?” he grumbled to himself. Regardless, he peeled off the corner of the plastic wrap curiously, inspecting whatever it was that Gertrude Case had brought for his brother.

It was probably roofied. Even Dean didn’t dare take a bite.

He and Cas heard Sam’s bedroom door shut with a quiet ‘click,’ and Dean exhaled, replacing the plastic wrap. “That went better than I expected,” he admitted.

But Cas was frowning and getting to his feet. “Are you alright? You seem… tense.”

Dean scoffed. “Of course I’m _tense_ ,” he said. He rubbed a hand over his face and lowered his voice. “Not here, alright? Not right now.” He drew the Impala’s keys out from his front pocket and dangled them in front of him. “Come on, we’ve got places to be.”

Castiel jerked on his boots as quickly and efficiently as possible, forgoing his usual uniform inclusive of the trench coat. He respected Dean’s request for space; he knew that all he’d have to do to get him to talk was to leave him alone for a few hours to think about what he wanted to say, and then he’d unfurl shyly. He always did. Cas had known him too well for too many years.

They slid into the front seat and Cas plugged the address for the funeral home into his fancy smart phone, resting it against his knees so Dean could see it while he went through Jessica’s files again. “You two have the same birthday,” he said, surprised, looking down at a copy of Jessica’s birth certificate.

Dean smiled a little. “No kidding.”

“January 24th,” Cas confirmed, nodding.

Dean hummed quietly and flicked on the radio, fiddling with the dials until something other than static came on.

The drive to the funeral home wasn’t long, and other than the pale grey ‘59 Caddy (Series 62, Dean would stake his life on it) the Impala was the only car in the lot. Good thing too, seeing as there were only about three parking places to being with. Dean and Cas got out of the car, the Moores’ documents in firm hand, and peered up at the building. It was modest but classical looking, as if the whole world could crumble around it and these walls would still be standing. Death is mystical that way, Dean supposed.

The two of them stepped through the door into a small entranceway, carpeted and dimly lit. There was an indentation in the wall housing three marble statues, grandly posed. Dean assessed them as they stood there awkwardly – the place looked deserted. There was a podium by the doorway, like a restaurant hosting station, but there was no one there to greet them. Cas flicked the envelope a little to tighten his grip on it, as if he were afraid it would flit away.

All three statues in the parlor were unclothed, Dean discovered abashedly, and Dean snorted to himself as Castiel blindly led him off further into the building. You’d think warriors postured in an entryway of the house of Death would look more… impressive. They weren’t exactly packing.

“Dean, you can’t giggle in a funeral home,” Castiel reprimanded in a whisper, peering around corners for any sign of life.

Dean cleared his throat and schooled his expression into something a little more mature. “Right, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He bit his lip to keep from laughing outright. He never really did _get_ art.

“Honestly,” Castiel grumbled, though Dean could see his cheek was lifted in his profile, the hint of a smile regardless. Cas could be a stoic motherfucker, but never let it be said that he didn’t have a sense of humor (usually laughing at Dean).

A man stepped out from a side door then, wiping his hands with a rag. He was tall and lanky, gaunt almost, dressed in a trim black suit and matching dress shoes. His hair was slicked back and his beaky nose stuck out from his face like it was fake.

“Hello. How can I help you gentlemen?” the man asked, tucking the piece of cloth into his breast pocket. He steepled his fingers respectfully together at his core, and made no move to approach the pair, for which Dean was pretty thankful. He could smell the rot on this guy, like rubber and formaldehyde. Something about a man who spends his free time hanging around dead people is not someone Dean would want to be friends with, no matter how nice his suit was.

“We’re here on behalf of the Moores,” Dean said with sympathy.

The man nodded serenely. “Yes, Jessica,” he recalled. “Such a tragedy. I apologize, I was just finishing my lunch,” he said, pointing back to the door he’d come out of.

Dean and Cas exchanged an unsettled look.

He turned then and glided into an unoccupied parlor, seating himself on a pale blue couch, silent and pale as Death himself. “Now, what is it that I can help you with?”

Cas set the Moores’ manila envelope on the tops of his thighs gingerly, resting pale fingers lightly on its flap, like he was afraid to tarnish it. “The details of Jessica’s parents’ instructions are all in here, but I took the liberty of reading them over before we arrived, if you’d like quick answers to some questions now,” Castiel said after clearing his throat. Dean nodded like an oaf at his side.

The funeral director – whose tucked handkerchief boasted an embroidered ‘J.R.’ – produced a small notepad and an honest-to-god fountain pen from his inner jacket pocket. “That’s very considerate of you. I’m sure you know this is a very in depth process.”

“Of course,” Castiel answered.

The director licked the tip of his pen and poised it above the yellow pad. “Will the deceased be buried or entombed?”

“Buried,” Castiel said. “The family has a plot in a nearby churchyard cemetery. The information is in the packet,” he promised.

The funeral director nodded. “And will the deceased be cremated?”

“No.” Dean and Castiel answered in tandem. Dean didn’t have to read the file to know that.

A bunch of other invasive questions were asked of them, these two strangers with absolutely no relation to the late Jessica Moore, most of which Castiel was actually able to answer. Organs would not be donated. Traditional funeral ceremony with casket present. Closed. At the Moores’ local church.  DNA should be taken. Clergy, pallbearers, speakers, musicians, all named and accounted for. Sam, of course, was among those listed.

“Will there be a procession?” the director asked, not even daring to wet his lips. It was as if he didn’t even need to blink.

Castiel sighed and picked up the envelope. “I think you should read these,” he said softly, respectfully. The director picked them up with the same care with which Cas had handled them, and turned it over in his pale hands. “There’s a number on the back if you have any questions,” Castiel added.

The director nodded. “Of course.” He stood, and Cas stood with him. Dean followed much more clumsily, a moment too late. “Thank you gentlemen for coming. I know it means a great deal to the family.”

Dean nodded and shrugged. “We’re happy to do what we can.” He flashed a tiny smile at the director.

He hummed in response, and tucked the envelope – along with the pen and the pad – into his jacket. “Then I bid you a good day,” he said, turning towards the back door. “Oh,” he called out, almost as an afterthought. “And don’t forget.”

He twisted over his shoulder to offer them a deathly serious look. “Seatbelts. I hear those classic cars are death traps.”

Then, he stepped through the door, and left the pair alone in the parlor.

“Creepy,” Dean whispered. Cas didn’t dare respond, but followed him dutifully out of the parlor.

Dean still could not get the image of Sam, holding a heavy casket over his bowed head, out of his mind. He bit his thumbnail in frustration, a nervous tick.

They climbed back into the comforting chassis of the Impala, but Dean did not turn the keys. He sat there, with both hands fixed white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Castiel figured after this sobering encounter, Dean was ready to talk at last. So he said nothing.

“You know,” Dean started. His tone was gruff, but soft. Trying not to betray emotion. “I always thought that Sam dealt with death so well before. Aunt Karen, Pastor Jim, the dog… Hell, Mom still doesn’t even faze him,” Dean told Cas, flexing his fingers. “See a dead bird on the sidewalk and he’ll just kick it to the side.” He chuckled once and shrugged. “I’ve never seen him like this.

“I guess he just never really lost anything he cared about enough or something,” he finished uncertainly, because he really didn’t know the answer to his own question. The words were tainted with bitterness.

Karen used to bake for them on Thanksgiving. Jim looked after the two of them when Dad would go missing for a few days, just to give Bobby a break. Sam even pulled out the waterworks to convince Dad to let them keep Bones, and the fleabag slept on his bed for a week straight.

Dean, too, was there for Sam in every instance he ever needed him, and Sam left _him_ behind no problem. With barely a goodbye between them.

Maybe _that’s_ why Ms. Case showing up with a casserole that morning got him all twisted up inside, why Dean wanted so badly to scratch Sam’s name off of the pallbearer list. Dean was used to being the only one taking care of Sam. He didn’t need to be reminded that other people had taken his place, that he was no longer equipped to shield him from the bad in the world.

He was jealous of a dead girl who had stolen his brother’s heart from him.

Castiel’s voice was like a tether, a soothing balm on Dean’s bruised ego, his hurt feelings. It was soft and nonjudgmental and Dean could feel the electric eyes on him without having to turn and face them. Staring like his concerns _mattered_ as he said, “You’ve always tried to protect him from heartbreak. He always had you to lean on.”

“That’s because _I_ didn’t have – ” Dean snapped, cutting himself off. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper, not with Cas. “I’d give anything for him not to go through that alone.”

Cas’s eyes were wide and sad and honest. “I know, Dean,” he promised.

He’d said something to Dean once; one night away at school Dean got blasted at a party and Cas had to drag him back to their dorm room. Dean was a wreck, hiccupping with sobs and terrified out of his mind that his dad would find out about it or that he'd get expelled, and Cas laid him down in his own bed and promised, _I’ll watch over you._

Dean thinks about that night a lot. It came to mind right then.

Just like that, all of Dean’s anger evaporated. He sighed and twisted the key in the ignition. “Come on. Let’s go make sure Sam’s ok.”

Cas watched him for just a little while longer, and then turned to face the window. It was all he was going to get out of Dean, at least for now.

He’d wait.


	3. Anger

“We’re back,” Dean announced, letting himself into the apartment. Cas trailed behind him and hung his coat up silently by the door, toed his shoes off courteously.

They found Sam seated at the wooden desk in the corner of the living area, paper strewn around him and a few new boxes piled up behind his chair. He looked a little ragged – hair mussed, eyes dry and tired, cheeks splotchy. He ran his hands down his hair and over his face to clear his expression, and gave Dean an uneasy smile. “Hey.”

His brother clearly wasn’t falling for it.

“Did you get everything done?” he asked, eying the blank and crumpled paper in front of Sam. “How were your friends?”

Sam shrugged and placed his hands in his lap, angled the chair towards Dean. “Oh, you know,” he said ambiguously. He shrugged again. “Hanging in there.”

Dean nodded slowly, lips pressed together and eyebrows slightly furrowed. He always looked so much like their dad when he did that. “How’s the eulogy going?” he asked.

 _Yep, there it is_. Sam shook his head and stood. “I was actually just about to get lunch. I’ll work on it later.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “Later? Sam, the day’s half over. When exactly were you planning on writing it?”

Sam huffed and started heading for the front hall, intent on following up on his lie and heading down to Panera or something for a sandwich. “I don’t know, Dean. I’ll get to it.”

“Get to it,” Dean repeated incredulously. “When? In the car over on the way to the service?”

“Dean,” Cas chided.

Sam flinched and felt his anger spike. “God, you don’t ever stop, do you?” Sam groused. “Give me a break, Dean. You’re so bossy.” _Eat this, Sam, go here today, Sam, do this today, Sam, even if it breaks your fucking heart._ Did he get to have control over _anything_?

Dean sneered. “We’re burying your girlfriend the day after _tomorrow_ , Sam! You can’t just pretend like it’s not happening.”

Sam halted in the hallway, spinning to face his brother. “I KNOW that, Dean, and I don’t need you breathing down my neck – I’m not a stupid kid anymore,” he thundered. He got a sick thrill of satisfaction from being able to look _down_ at Dean, finally towering over his big brother.

With a spike of adrenaline, he wondered if Dean was going to hit him.

(As his temper escalated, he was kind of hoping for it. An excuse for a fight.)

Dean’s face was clouding over, like he was just barely able to hold himself back from doing just that. “Then start _acting_ like it! God, you’re still the same spoiled brat that ran off to college in the first place,” Dean grumbled, clenching his fists. “I am just trying to _help_ you, Sam, why are you making this so fucking difficult?”

“I’m NOT,” Sam argued. He was just doing things at his own pace.

“You ARE. You’ve been weird ever since we got here. You gotta confront this shit, man, you can’t mope around all day. You got shit to do and people are counting on you to do it!” Dean threw his hands up in the air out of exasperation. “If I gotta be the bad guy here, then fine, but I’ll tell you right now that I’m not going to put up with any more of this whiny _crap_ ,” he hissed.

Sam flared his nostrils. “Now I remember why I left,” he told him. Dean’s face froze, arms stiff by his sides. Sam narrowed his eyes meanly. “I don’t even know why I called you in the first place.”

Dean looked murderous, but he fixed his face into a deadly scowl and walked away, shoving right past Sam and knocking into his shoulder. Fire erupted in Sam’s gut as they made contact – it took everything he had not to grab at him and shove him against the wall, that’s the Winchester way – but he let him go. He was barely aware of the sound of the front door slamming shut, and Sam grit his teeth.

He picked up the glass on the edge of the kitchen table and hurled it at the wall, the glass splintering with a satisfying crack. He kicked over a chair, shoved the paper off the counter.

“AHHH!” he screamed, hoarse and frustrated and oh no, the dam was open now and Sam had real _emotion_ pouring in. He sunk to the floor right there, propped himself up against the side of the counter, shaking with rage.   
There was still a hollow throbbing in his chest; the fight was still coursing strong through him. The pieces of glass on the floor glittered in the light from the uncovered window. Sam could see them from where he was sitting. It was odd, but he didn’t feel so satisfied looking at those pieces now. It was just broken glass, just something he’d have to clean up later.

The glass, he realized with horror, had been one of Jessica’s.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, knees pressed up to his chest and arms wrapped around himself like a safety net. That’s what he would do when Dad would yell at him, or yell at Dean and storm off. He’d make himself as small as possible, wait for the air to clear. Maybe Dean was right; maybe he _was_ still that spoiled little kid.

Control, control. He must have control.

He dropped his forehead to his knees and took a measured, shallow breath. He heard crunching from his left, caught just a glimpse of scuffed black shoes before someone took a seat on the floor next to him.

Sam took another slow breath and he didn’t look up. He had thought that Cas would go after Dean, like he always does. But he stayed here to watch over Sam, the child Dean knew he was.

He didn’t mind having the company, actually. Cas would never rush him. Cas had always been so steady.

He was still mad. He was fuming, actually, at his emotionally constipated old brother’s insensitivity. He just didn’t know where to put all that frustration, all that bubbling rage. “I’m a fucking adult, I don’t need babysitters,” he mumbled to Castiel, hating how broken it sounded. How young.

Castiel nodded and folded his hands in his lap. “You’re right.”

Sam raised his head, rested his chin on his knee. “If I’m so grown up, why couldn’t I stop my house from burning down?” he asked sarcastically. “I’m such an adult. I let Jessica burn alive in a fucking house fire,” he said, grinding his teeth. He scoffed. So small – a six-foot-four man now taller than his childhood idol (a brother who had once himself seemed so big) and still he was nothing next to some faulty wiring and some dry insulation.

“I keep looking at the space she should be and I just get so mad that I wasn’t enough,” he confessed, clenching his fists tight. How else could he describe it to him? The hopelessness that washed over him once everything he loved went up in flames. The helplessness that came with being held back by the fireman, pinned to the ambulance for medical care he didn’t deserve. The doubt and the guilt and the _pain_ today and every day since. Fear, icy cold and almost visceral, when he bolts upright in the middle of the night from another nightmare.

He took a steadying breath. “Dean was right; I’m pretending it’s not happening. I couldn’t save her, but I can’t let go either. I can’t do anything. Dean –” he cut himself off with a frustrated nudge to his own leg.

“Dean let go,” he said at last. His fists slackened against his shins. It was quiet for a brief minute, tense silence with the power to suffocate, but Sam was done being silent for now.

“I am not like my brother,” he told Cas deliberately, enunciating every word, every syllable. “And Jess paid for it.”

Castiel was shaking his head, fearfully watching Sam’s tight jaw. He wasn’t really mad at Dean.

He was mad at _himself_.

“Sam, that’s not true. You could not have controlled this,” he assured him. “Sometimes… bad things happen,” he said.

Sam laughed bitterly. “Right. Bad things happen.” He turned sharply to Castiel, lip trembling and eyes hard. “Do you remember how I used to carry around Mom’s old cross? Like sixth grade, I think.”

Castiel nodded. He did remember Sam at that age, the silver chain that was always around his neck. Dean always had a peculiar look on his face whenever he looked at it. Like he didn’t quite approve, or like he knew something Sam didn’t he wished he could spare him. “Yes, the silver one.”

Sam nodded jerkily. “She always told us, ‘angels are watching over you,’” he said. “Jess believed too. The Moores, they’re Catholic,” he said, but Cas already knew that. Sam’s eyes watered again, and he stared at Cas like a desperate man. “Where were they then, huh? Cas, what kind of God would let something so bad happen to someone so good?”

Castiel wished he had an answer for him. He’d asked himself the very same questions without much more success. He didn’t understand God’s choices anymore than Sam did. He didn’t know what forces were at work out there, only that sometimes things couldn’t be explained because they escaped human control. Elusive, potent, and scorching like a flame. He knew it from his own experience with his own screwed up, religious and inattentive family.

“I don’t know. Even if I did, I don’t think my answer would give you any comfort.” Castiel stood then, brushing some stray glass off of his pant legs.

“Don’t be angry at God, Sam. It won’t make you feel any better.”

They both turned to look at the broken glass in the front hallway, and Sam’s grip on his legs loosened. “Thanks,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure if he meant it. The dam was still busted open and it was hard to make sense of everything.

Castiel nodded and with kind eyes added, “You can always talk to me if you need to. I know Dean’s… well, I know he doesn’t always understand, though he tries. He has a different way of doing things.”

Then he turned away, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Sam didn’t know where he was going – probably to the living room, to crash on the sofa bed and wait up for Dean – but he knew he should probably follow his example. Get up, dust himself off, and move.

He was still angry, unfulfilled and frustrated and desolate, but as he went through the steps of cleaning up the glass, tying off the garbage bag, making himself a pot of coffee, the tension in his arms gave out. His legs felt heavy, and he could feel a headache coming on. By the time he was seated at the kitchen table, he had the grace to feel a little ashamed at how he’d acted. He’d thrown a tantrum like a little kid and he’d pushed away his brother, who dropped everything to come out and take care of him.

Cas was right; getting angry didn’t solve anything, and it certainly wouldn’t bring Jessica back.

He sipped his coffee wearily as he waited for the front door to open.


	4. Bargaining

His tenth grade teacher, Mr. Wyatt, might have been the best thing that ever happened to Sam Winchester.

He liked his writing, of all things. Didn’t seem to care one bit that Sam got into a couple of nasty fights during lunch hour. He was quiet and firm, kind of like Dean’s friend Cas, but he smiled more and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He called him after class one day because he wanted to ‘talk to him’ – which is usually grown up speak for “you’re in big trouble” – but all he did was ask him, “Do you really want to go into the family business, Sam?”

No one ever asked him that before.

He didn’t think it was ever a choice. They are what they are, Dean told him once. They were just too poor to send a kid to college, no matter how many jobs Dean worked, and Dad always needed an extra set of hands to help out around the shop and to keep him in check. But there are ways to go to college without money, Mr. Wyatt told him after school that day, and you don’t have to make it your job to give up on an attainable dream.

He hooked him up with the guidance counselor at Truman High – one in a long line of professionals that have claimed to “get” Sam over the years – who explained the college application process.

He started writing his admission essays when he was 14 years old.

 

For a long time, Sam didn’t even know he got in. Bills kept flooding the mailbox, overdue and underpaid, which Dean tried to squirrel away in his backpack. Of course he did inevitably come to Sam with them; his eyes weren’t good he said, but Sam suspected it was because Dean mixed up letters and numbers sometimes and was never very good at math. So he took over the family books for a little while, waiting for a letter he wasn’t sure was coming and more and more anxious that he was never going to know one way or another. Every new notice and ticket that came in was like his dad purposefully trying to make it hard for him to leave college. He was always needed _here_ to pick up the mess. Anything of Sam’s was just lost in the flow of things.

It was not the first or the last time he started to resent his father.

He started picking fights with him, asking him the same questions Mr. Wyatt asked him not too long ago. His dad seemed offended that he even knew to ask them. “Why can’t we just be _normal_ , Dad?” he remembered asking him, that elusive buzzword that had haunted Sam since grade school. “Ever since Mom died – why do we have to always do things the hard way?”

Dean came to find him after the subsequent argument, huddled up on the roof with his chin on his knees. He didn’t take his side.

It was Mr. Wyatt who gave him a print out of his acceptance letter, direct from the board of admissions and faxed over from the guidance counselor’s office. “Congratulations,” he’d said, beaming like he was _so proud_ of Sam, and he wrapped his arms tight around his teacher because no one else he loved could share this with him like he could.

He didn’t tell Dean, not at first. He was nicer to Dad and didn’t complain when the man lost his new job. He’d get a new one. Things were fine. But behind that agreeable façade he put up, Sam was making plans to leave as soon as summer arrived.

The only part that was hard about it was his brother, who for the first time in a long time seemed to actually be happy because their family was sort of getting along again. Maybe Sam would ask him to come with him to California. Dean would love it out there: all the pretty girls, the sunshine.

The day came and Sam was practically buzzing with excitement. He waited until nightfall, gave Dean one last good day to remember, and he packed up his bag.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Crap, he’d thought Dad would have been asleep by now. Dad got paid for the week and was celebrating with some Maker’s Mark on the couch. He figured he’d have a few hours head start on him.

“Out,” he tried.

Dad eyed his packed bag with a scowl. “With all your shit,” he observed wryly.

Sam sighed and hitched the bag a little higher on his shoulder. Busted. “Look. Dad. I…” _Had rehearsed what I was going to say for weeks now. Have been waiting for this moment since I was fourteen. Never wanted anything more than I want this right now._

“I got accepted to Stanford. I’m going.” That was it, no room for debate. He’d left a note for Dean on his bedside table like a coward.

His dad scoffed in the dim evening light and sat up a little straighter on the hotel couch. “The hell you are. Sam, your place is here.”

Sam reigned in the anger, if only to keep from further damaging his relationship with his father. “Actually, no, it’s not, but thanks.”

He turned around – rookie mistake, never take your eyes off the enemy – and his dad yanked on the back of his hoodie, jerking him back and startling the breath out of his throat. “Dad–!” he choked, gripping his bag tighter. He ripped out of John’s grip and whirled back around. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled. Dean was up in a flash.

“Sam?”

He couldn’t even look at his brother, struggling to put on his jeans. He was all up in his father’s face. “This doesn’t even _change_ anything, ok? I went to public school for thirteen years and we made it just fine! I can still help out!”

This was Sam bargaining, pleading for the thing he wanted and the thing he loved – his dream and his family. He’d gladly give up peace of mind to keep this small, dysfunctional world he’d grown up in. It would mean that he’d have to stay on his toes his whole life, waiting for his dad to call for money or anything else, but he didn’t know any other way. He’d give a little.

But by god was he going to take, too.

“This family _always_ comes first, Sam. It’s all we’ve ever had,” his dad thundered. “You can’t just leave.”

“ _WATCH ME!”_

Dean was standing then, but it looked like he wouldn’t be for much longer. “You’re leaving?” he asked in a small voice. His pitiful question, cracked through with heartbreak, was the only sound in the silent hotel room, and it was all Sam could do to stand there, firm in his decision. _I want this I want this I want this and I want you to want it for me._

“Yeah,” he told his brother, the only person in the world who’d ever put him first.

Until today, anyway.

“I got into Stanford,” he told Dean quietly. Their Dad was standing up now, grumbling for his dislodged bottle (rolled under the couch).

Dean fidgeted. “I know.”

Sam did a double take, one eye on his Dad. “You – you knew? How? I _just_ found out!”

Dean’s ears started to turn red, the universal sign for shame and embarrassment. Sam barely caught the tail end of a stuttered explanation about a marked envelope being wedged between bills for the month of April, deliberating and eventually tearing it in half, stuffing it into the garbage bin. Sam was seeing red.

“You _tore up_ my acceptance letter,” Sam murmured.

It was unbelievable that Dean would ever do such a thing. He was going to ask him to come _with him_. But Dean didn’t want him to go at all!

His dad glared down at him, fists trembling like they do when he’s looking for a fight. “If you’re gonna go, you should stay gone.”

So despite his haggling, Sam could not have both.

Dean’s head shook between the two of them like he was watching a tennis match, gaping with watery eyes. His family was splitting up. Their father (no, Sam) was doing that to him.

Sam was choking up. He was still mad at Dean, but that didn’t mean he never wanted to see him again. “Dad, come on,” he whispered.

“I mean it, boy. You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.”

Sam grit his teeth. He couldn’t have it all? Story of his freaking life. “Fine. Then don’t bother calling.” He looked over at Dean. “Either of you.”

He made sure to slam the door on his way out.

Dean didn’t say a goddamn word.

 

He was mad at Dean well after he got off the bus in Palo Alto. It was betrayal, it was thick headed and cruel, why was his poor brother such a freaking moron?

Now he’s all by himself halfway across the country. Fine. Good. He didn’t need Dean anyway.

 

He didn’t stay mad for long, of course. He worried about his brother, actually, alone with their father. Cas had texted him a few times, called, left voicemails, but Sam deleted and ignored them all. Dad said he couldn’t be a part of their family if he chose Stanford, and that included Castiel.

Then he met Jess.

He was smitten immediately; from the moment Brady told him her name. He wanted to curl her blonde hair around his finger and lavish onto her the wonders of the world he knew. They fell in love so fast it made Sam dizzy.

Jess brought him home to meet her parents over Thanksgiving after he told her he wouldn’t be going home for the holidays (not that there was much of a home to go back to, but he wasn’t about to ruin it with her by letting her know that). Mr. and Mrs. Moore were perfectly hospitable, and didn’t say one thing about Sam’s ratty jacket or floppy hair even though he knew they were both wearing Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein. Jess’s duffle bag was Chanel.

He’d had proper Thanksgivings before, at Bobby’s with Ellen Harvelle and her daughter and that one time when he was eleven at Stephanie’s house, but it did absolutely nothing to prepare him for the silver covered dishes, the three forks beside his hand, and he was sweating right through his polo. He was afraid of making a bad impression, afraid these wealthy people would see right through him, figure he wasn’t cut out to date their daughter, kick him out of their huge house –

Jess tapped the smallest fork with her index finger when the first course came out, and then smiled apologetically at him, like she was at fault for not explaining about the forks.

They held hands under the table while they choked down butternut squash soup, and it was the first time in his life that Sam felt like he was sort of worth something.

He went to a gallery opening with them over Christmas. He went golfing with Mr. Moore for the first time over spring break. He drove Mrs. Moore to a winery for the weekend, and learned more about wine on the drive over than he ever thought he needed to. He soaked it all up, the clean slacks and the gold watches world that Jessica came from. She seemed so embarrassed by the whole thing, and Sam had no way to explain to her what it meant that she was letting him into this alien society. Giving him a home when he had gambled his away.

It was just good business: he traded in his old borderline vagrancy lifestyle for the privileged, white-collar life of an adopted Moore, for the price of one college application.

He was going to make a great lawyer some day. And he’d have Jessica at his side through all of it.

 

* * *

PRESENT DAY

Dean cracked open the door around two in the morning, shucking his coat and shoes as quietly as possible so not to wake Cas in the other room. He’d been to a couple bars, but he was so keyed up from his fight with Sam that the alcohol did nothing to soothe him. He didn’t want to pick anybody up, although he got plenty of offers. He wasn’t in the mood; none of them offered to be gentle with him. He went from bar to bar, staring down at a shot glass, feeling miserable with himself.

He walked past the kitchen, softly lit with the pale industrial light of a sleeping city, and noticed a hunched figure at the table. His eyes adjusted, and he saw a pair of shiny hazel eyes staring back at him, giant hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. “Hey,” Sam said quietly.

Dean nodded once at him. “Hi.”

It was terrible, just standing there staring at each other. It had been four long years since they’d shared the same space; they didn’t know how to communicate anymore.

Sam stood from his seat. “Um, I made coffee. Want some?”

Dean nodded and took the seat next to Sam at the table. “Sure.” It would help him fight off the vestiges of a hangover tomorrow, at the very least.

Sam left his mug as his placeholder and went about putting together Dean’s coffee. “Just black?” he asked.

“Yeah, black’s fine,” Dean assured him, reaching out to take the offered mug from his brother. He blew over the top of it to cool it, took a long sip, and tried to ignore the puppy eyes Sam was making at him from his seat.

He got halfway through the cup when Sam cautiously takes a breath like he’s going to start talking. “I’m sorry I –”

“It’s ok, Sammy.”

There was another long pause, and Sam was still frowning at the counter top. “It’s not you, you know,” he said quietly.

Dean just nodded.

Sam took a long, deep breath. “I keep thinking…” he whispered. His breath shook on the exhale. “I keep thinking that maybe if I’d just come home a little earlier. If I’d left the window open or changed the batteries in our smoke detector, then… maybe Jess would be…”

Dean shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself.” He set his mug down, and only then did he really turn his head to look at Sam. “You don’t move on like that. You have to… you have to let the bad stuff go,” he said.

Sam shook his head. “How do you know?” It sounded easier in theory.

Dean pursed his lips. “I never called you, Sam. Not once. Not on your birthday, not on holidays. Never.”

And Sam was right back to feeling like shit. “I’m sorry for that, too.”

Dean waved a hand nonchalantly. He considered his coffee mug again, twisting it around in a circle by the handle. “Point is, you can’t let the bad stuff muck up the good times.”

He paused for a while, frowning at his coffee. “I was wrong about you,” he admitted at last. “You’re not a spoiled kid, Sam.” He looked up at Sam’s kitchen, out the window where a whole city laid waiting for him. “Look at where you _are_ , man. You’ve got a roof over your head, a job after graduation, a –” beautiful girlfriend, he was about to say. “And you did it all without my help.”

Sam shook his head, reached across the table like he wanted to hold Dean’s hand or something else equally gay. He settled for resting it on his forearm.

“Dean, I’m always going to need you,” he confessed softly.

Dean couldn’t figure out how he’d known just what to say.

Sam’s eyes were still wide and sad, one of those puppy dog looks that used to make Dean melt. “Why do you think I called you?”

Dean didn’t move, but his eyes flicked down into the finite depth of his coffee mug and Sam took it as a win. He pulled his hand back and wrapped it back around his own cup, sighing as he did so.

He couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t keep some of the blame for what happened to Jess. But at least he knew now that no matter how burdened down he got, Dean would be there to share the load.

They sipped their coffee in the moonlight.

He thought about it sometimes, that night he left. Wished he could take that last part back. Even though what Dean did was wrong, he would have liked his advice on some things…

Sam fidgeted on his stool, and Dean caught him in his uneasiness. It was a relief to know that maybe he could still read him, even after all this time. _Just spit it out, Sammy,_ Dean wanted to joke, though he didn’t feel so much like joking right now. Sam’s quiet voice curled through the air like smoke. “I was going to marry her, you know. I’d been shopping for rings.”

Dean nodded, and wondered idly if he would have been invited to the wedding. With a little trepidation, Dean looked up again at his brother.

“Tell me about her.”

His words seemed to shock Sam out of some sort of daydream. “Hm?” he asked.

Dean smiled encouragingly. “About Jess. Lemme hear about the good times.”

Sam didn’t say anything at first, just curled his hands tighter. But he remembered the shards of broken glass he’d cleaned up in the hallway earlier that night, and he loosened his grip.

He took a deep breath and began to speak.


	5. Depression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one GUTTED me.  
> (Coming up on the end soon…)

Dean looked at himself in the mirror and looped his tie through the knot on his neck. “I mean, Jesus, it’d be like if I lost you tomorrow,” he said, quietly. “I never really thought about how _sudden_ it was, you know?” he rambled in a whisper.

“I don’t think that would be quite the same thing,” Cas argued weakly, struggling with his own tie.

It just wasn’t fair. Cas had been in love with Dean since they met in that insignificant high school in the mid western United States, before the sporadic visits and the late night phone calls and the afternoons spent cutting class sharing burgers at the diner. How could he not be, when Dean was kind and gentle and impulsive and passionate? Being his best friend meant being privileged to those parts of Dean he kept hidden from the rest of the world, but it also meant helping him get ready for dates, standing witness to Dean’s moon eyes over cereal at the breakfast table, giddy because a girl had kissed him the night before.

He _knew_ his feelings were not reciprocated. He’d lived with that burden for years. And the comparison to Sam and his dead girlfriend/would-have-been-fiancée just wasn’t fair.

“Sure it is,” Dean said, ignorant of Castiel’s pained expression. He did notice, however, the mess Castiel was making of his tie. He strode forward and nudged his friend’s hands out of his way, buttoning up his shirt collar effortlessly. Castiel didn’t fight him on it; only lifted his chin a little higher to accommodate Dean some space to work. “They lived together, they were best friends, they did everything together. That’s us, isn’t it?” he asked, sliding the tie knot into place and meeting Castiel’s eyes at last.  
Cas gulped, but Dean’s hands were still on his neck and he could probably feel that. “I guess,” he murmured.

The words tasted like surrender, and hope was stubbornly lodged in his throat no matter the measures he took to force it down. _Just tell him_ , his heart pounded. _Now would be good._

But Dean patted his shoulder, smiled, and stepped away, and Cas kept his mouth shut.

 

About twenty-four hours earlier, Dean and Cas had been huddled together on the floor of Sam’s living room, boxes piled high around them. When Sam went to Rebecca’s and Brady’s, he had come back with a few boxes full of photos and things they thought Sam should have. Most stuff was lost in the fire, but there were a few things from Facebook and in photo albums from their parents that still endured. Understandably a little overwhelmed, Sam really didn’t want to open them immediately. And when Dean asked the night before if Sam could tell him about Jessica, he figured that picking out photos for the memorial might be a great way to get to know her.

Dean and Cas’s job for the day was to pick out any photos of Jess looking happy, being her typical self for the memorial poster board. Dean and Cas each slid a box into their lap and proceeded to rifle through the photos. Sam was locked in his room, trying not to cry as he finally began to write Jessica’s eulogy.

“Oh, man, check this out,” Dean laughed, shoving it at Cas. “That is the same Goofy hat that _you_ had back when Gabriel took you to Disney World summer of ’94,” Dean said. He looked down again at the smiling, suntanned blonde kid in the ridiculous Goofy the dog hat, clutching a purple balloon in her tiny fist. Her smile, of course, was dazzling. He chuckled again.

“Jessica had very good taste in headgear,” Castiel replied drily, refusing to play into Dean’s taunting. “Look at this one,” he said, handing over another photo gently.

Dean took it and squinted down at what looked like a Fourth of July picnic, the same blonde girl only a little taller, a little skinnier, swinging her legs on a picnic bench surrounded by adults rocking the mom jeans of the mid ‘90s. The photo was grainy and authentic, one hundred percent girl-next-door American barbeque. “Aw, man. She really is adorable,” Dean said. He quirked up a smile of his own to match Jessica’s. “Hey, remember that one year you and me stuffed Sammy into the backseat of the Impala and drove to that empty field? We must have set off, like, sixty illegal fireworks,” he said.

Castiel smiled a little too. “And then we got taken in to the police station because we nearly burned the field down and you didn’t have your license yet. I remember,” he said. Dean had held a Roman candle, and the wonder that lit up his eyes as it went off was one of the first real moments that Castiel could count of being truly in love with him. Sparks literally flew between them, and Cas was a goner.

Dean laughed and nodded, handing the picture back. “Put that one in the pile. That’s a good one.”

Castiel smiled fondly down at the picture. “Yeah. Ok.”

 

It went on like that for hours. Just the two of them sitting on the floor, passing photos back and forth and playing, “Oh, remember when?” Even though Sam had told him some things about Jessica the night before – going to school for nursing, loved pumpkin pie above all else, was a damn good surfer – Dean felt he was a lot closer to her looking through these pictures. He appreciated the opportunity, getting to know his future sister-in-law now that he’d never get the chance to. This little blonde girl with dimples and braces when she was twelve had grown into a beautiful young woman who’d given Sam the greatest joy in his life, and Dean was abruptly so, so grateful to her. Only when he held Jessica Moore’s past in his hands did he realize what Sam was truly losing.

And if he stole a few looks at Castiel, living and breathing next to him and squinting like the grumpy son of a bitch that he usually was, it was only because the whole thing made him kind of sentimental.

In the church down the street from the graveyard where Jessica was set to be buried, Dean tapped his fingers restlessly against his thigh, feeling flighty and out of place in his too-big suit. The church bells were rung out of respect, and the sound echoing all around sounded more sinister than uplifting. He kept glancing over at Sam as discreetly as he could, and felt none of the warmth from this afternoon. It had been sucked dry, good vibes evaporating from him like a hot road after a cold rain. He kept thinking about all the things he should have said on the way over there, how he should have been there earlier –

His nervous drumming suddenly ceased because Cas, on his other side, had covered his hand with his own. With a sharp breath through his nose, too loud over the sound of quiet sniffling, Dean intertwined their fingers. He gripped Cas’s hand until he thought his own would fall off. Cas squeezed right back and ran his thumb along the tops of his knuckles.

Jessica’s parents were seated right by the aisle. Her father was a burly man with gray at his temples, glasses that were understandably foggy, and a face that Dean easily recognized as borrowed by his late daughter. His bottom lip quivered but he didn’t make a sound. Mrs. Moore on the other hand was a thin, tanned woman with wiry blonde hair that dabbed at her eyes with tissues for the whole service. Her mouth was stretched tight with age and agony and painted bright red. She was clean and put together, strictly fashionable, but her hands were shaking every time she lifted them to her eyes.

Sam wasn’t much better really, doe eyes shining as he tried desperately to keep quiet. It made him look so much younger: a glimpse of the chubby kid Dean grew up looking after. Cas’s unyielding strength beside him was a comfort, security, grounding.

When the bells quieted the Eucharist was offered, and it made Dean uncomfortable but Cas got up to meet the priest without hesitation so he did too. They had to walk by Jessica’s casket to return to their pew; it was closed and covered with flowers, so many that they overflowed down the steps like a petal waterfall. White lilies, weeping orchids, blushing roses, soft daisies. Cas walked right by it without so much as batting an eye but Dean couldn’t take his eyes off it.

He was still holding Cas’s hand. He wasn’t sure when he’d picked it up again, if he ever even dropped it to begin with.

They were led in prayer with bowed heads and heavy hearts. The priest read a psalm. There was a hymn to be sung, which Dean knew none of the words to and Castiel forwent actually singing, and somewhere bagpipes struck up the melody. It dragged on forever, this anguished parade of remembrance and comfort, until the priest was calling up Samuel Winchester to read the eulogy. Dean turned to him with his mouth open, about to say something stupid like “break a leg!” but Sam was already out of his seat. He produced a few sheets of paper from his inside coat pocket as he approached the podium (which was only half his height – it would have been comical under any other circumstance).

He surveyed the congregation nervously, feeling the drop of every tear as heavily as if it were his own.

Sam unfolded his wrinkled pieces of paper, cleared his throat, and took a shaky breath in.

“Jessica Lee Moore was born in on January 24th 1984 in Santa Barbara, California,” he began. “She was the first and only child to parents Harrison and Joanna Moore. She was California born and bred, raised there,” _and_ _died there_ , the implication was. “She loved this place more than anywhere in the whole world, and it showed: looking at Jess was like looking at the sun on a clear day at the pier.”

Sam cleared his throat again. “She attended Stanford University for nursing for three years, and that’s where I met her.”

This whole time, Dean had been looking at photographs taken by other people, documents written by strangers about this girl who so drastically affected his brother’s life. This right here, this was the moment he would be able to see Jessica through his brother’s eyes and no one else’s, truthfully and clearly for the first time.

He squeezed Castiel’s hand tighter.

“Jess and I had been dating for a year and a half. I can’t possibly capture all of what I learned about her in that time; Jess was and always will be a little too large for…” Sam hesitated, “this world.

“And the _instant_ I saw her in my Theory of Social Anthropology class, I knew she was something special. I was so nervous when Brady introduced us, but she just – she held my hand, right there in the lecture hall, just to make me smile.”

He did smile then, a little, shaking his head fondly. Dean heard the first phantom crack in Sam’s voice. He recognized immediately how Sam’s lip quivered, how his throat was closing up whenever he used to get upset and frustrated.

But Sam soldiered on. “She taught me how to surf, she put food away like a trucker, and she had this –” he interrupted himself to chuckle, “weird obsession with the Smurfs that I used to tease her about. She studied with me for every test, even though she didn’t need my help at all. She was smarter than me by miles. I just liked being _around her_. I’m so grateful for the pieces of herself that she shared with me, because she has done nothing but bring light into my life. I’m so grateful for the time we had, and I wish – god, I wish so bad, Jess – that we could have had more of it. I wish I could tell her just one more time that I love her.

“I’m going to miss hearing her laugh, walking on the boardwalk with her in the summer. I’m even going to miss picking her up from the hospital at three in the morning.”

Sam smoothed his big hands down the pages of his eulogy again, trying hard not to make eye contact with the weeping Moores, and took another steadying breath. “There’s a lot of people to see you off today, Jess. You’ve touched so many people. You may not have become a real nurse – you never got to save all the lives you wanted to – but let me just be the first to say…”

One tear fell from Sam’s eye, right onto the pages of his speech. In a soft, broken voice, Sam finished, “You definitely saved mine.”

He got down from the podium then, pages shaking in his grip as he practically sprinted to his seat next to Dean. He was trembling, sniffling with hitched breath, and Dean pulled him tight to his side with his free arm. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, letting out just one sob, and tucked himself close to his big brother.

It was the first time Dean had seen Sam cry since they’d arrived in California.

 

After the service they all filed out of the church and followed the procession to the churchyard, where there were seats available by a hole in the ground. A pink quartz headstone was nestled in at the head of the assembly. 

_Jessica Lee Moore_

_Beloved Daughter_

_January 24 th 1984 – December 2nd 2003_

The pallbearers, including Sam and Mr. Moore, carried the familiar dark casket through the crowd of black with stony faces.

The casket was lowered, dirt sprinkled, prayers said, and parting sentiments still echoed in the tense air. Mrs. Moore had to be carried off at the tail end of the closing remarks, hysterical with grief. She was escorted home by her husband, who was still rubbing furiously under his own eyes. The crowd thinned, and people eventually began to leave.

All, of course, but Sam.

Dean hovered close at his back, hand clasped tight over his shoulder as they stared down at the mound of loose mud. There were no offerings yet – they weren’t allowed, the earth had not yet settled. It looked bare and dismal, and Sam took a rattled breath.

“I’m ok,” he proclaimed quietly. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets. “Can I have a minute though? I’ll meet you at the car.”

His voice was weary, each word weighted like it was painful to let go of. As reluctant as Dean was to leave his brother, he nodded and slid his hand from his arm. “Take your time,” he murmured, stepping away with Cas perpetually in his orbit. In some distant corner of his mind, Sam was really glad Cas was here to look after his brother. He relaxed a little once he heard their wet footsteps fading out into the distance.

Dean walked slowly, hands in his pockets and with his jacket unbuttoned. Cas walked a pace behind him, wary of stepping on anyone’s grave plot. Dean looked lost in his own thoughts, and Cas peered worriedly at him. “Are you alright?” he asked gently. It was the first thing he’d said in hours, and his voice was soft.

Dean tossed a solemn half smile over his shoulder and nodded. “Yeah. You good?”

Cas nodded once to himself and rejoined Dean at his side once they reached the road. He leaned up against the car, and they could just barely make out the hunched, silhouetted figure of Sam Winchester. “It was a beautiful service,” Cas said, if only to fill the silence.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, it was.” He hesitated, but said what he was thinking anyway, because _it’s only Cas_. “Sam did a good job.”

“He did.” Cas turned to look at him; the wind ruffled his hair and Dean could see it tangling wildly in his periphery. “You did a good job too, being there for him.”

Dan nodded and took his hand out of his pocket, reaching for Cas’s lax one at his side. Though clearly not expecting the gesture, Cas held his hand like a fucking sap and looked out over the rows of headstones while they waited for Sam.

“Thanks for being here,” Dean said after a moment, and he wasn’t sure that Cas could hear him over the wind.

He supposed he did, because Cas squeezed his hand a little tighter. Neither of them saw a need to let go.

There was something dangerously emotional bubbling up into Dean’s throat, so thick that he couldn’t even verbally protest against its emergence. All this mortality and loss… it really teaches you something about priorities. About what to take advantage of while you still have it. A hand to hold, for instance.

Or the dork who’s attached to it.

Sam started heading towards them then, and Dean cleared his throat to get rid of whatever weird thing was threatening to choke him. He opened the backseat door that he was leaning against. “In,” he said to Cas, letting go of his hand. His palm was a little sweaty, and he wiped it discreetly on his pants as Cas stepped around him. He didn’t say a word as he slid into the seat, just turned his lips up a little at him in thanks.

Dean shut the door after him, sighed a little over the top of the car, and patted the roof before rounding across the front. Sam slid into the passenger seat after a few minutes of silence, sniffling and blowing out a shaky breath through his mouth. Cas clapped him on the shoulder and Sam nodded in gratitude without turning to look at him.

The Impala dragged slowly behind the car ahead, and everyone inside was just exhausted. No one felt like talking, but the silence was still unnerving. Dean clicked on the radio before he could even think not to, and turned it up enough to drown out the blood pounding in his ears.

_Cuz I’m a cowboy!  
On a steel horse I ride!_

_I’m wanted_

_(wanted)_

_dead or alive!_

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean gasped, scrambling to punch the dial off. Wanted Dead or Alive? After a _funeral_? Fucking hell, this was the Winchester lot, wasn’t it? Dean couldn’t do anything right, he was trying so hard to be sensitive about this, god damn –

It was only after the initial shock had worn off that he realized Sam was _laughing_. Dean’s fingers hovered over the radio dial, and he caught Cas’s eyes in the mirror. He looked just about as puzzled as Dean did.

Sam looked fondly down at his hands, still ghostly grinning to himself. “She loved Bon Jovi,” he said quietly.

Sadness permeated the car once again, a visceral, heavy kind that Dean could feel deep down. He never met Jessica – hadn’t even known she existed last week – but over the past couple of days she’d come to mean a lot to Dean. In that eulogy Dean could hear the depth of Sam’s love for her, and the purity of her memory.

He turned the volume up instead of turning it off, and clenched his hands around the steering wheel.

“And I walk these streets,” Dean belted. “A loaded six-string on my back. I play for keeps,” he continued. He nudged Sam with the curve of his fist, and nodded at the radio. “Come on. For Jess.” He licked his lips. “’Cause I might not make it back. I've been everywhere!”

Sam’s lip twitched up. “Oh, yeah,” he droned quietly.

“And I’m standing tall,” Dean sang. He caught Castiel’s eyes in the mirror, and the man leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, slotting his head just behind Sam and Dean’s. “I've seen a million faces, and I rocked 'em all,” Cas sang along with Dean. Sam twisted in his seat to look at him, and he smiled a little wider, tears still drying on his cheeks.

“'Cause I'm a cowboy!” the three of them sang, volume increasing. “On a steel horse I ride! I'm wanted –”

“WANTED!” Sam howled.

“Dead or alive.” Dean looked back at the road, just catching Cas’s small grin out of the corner of his eye, and kept crooning. “Dead or alive. Dead or alive.”

It was probably a little uncouth, but Bon Jovi did have a point.

 

None of them felt up to going to the memorial service at the Moores’ house. Sam had enough, and Dean and Castiel didn’t belong there. It was time to let the mourners have their space, to allow the people who really, really loved Jessica to sit around and find comfort in one another. They three had each other, at least.

Dean didn’t ask Sam if he was ok, didn’t push him. He let him shuffle into his room without another word and he let him grab a box of tissues on the way in there. Sam needed to cope with this loss in his own way – which was always different from Dean’s way – because he was the only one of them who had ever truly had Jessica in the first place. It was Dean’s job to be there for him if he needed.

He walked into the bathroom, tugging off his tie as he went. He left the door open behind him and turned on the sink.

Cas followed him in, leaning up against the doorframe.

Dean was running the faucet, pressing his cool damp hands to the back of his neck, and he caught Castiel’s eyes in the mirror. Dean rested his hands limply on the edges of the sink, and he sighed at Cas’s reflection. He has always been there, lurking in doorways for whenever Dean needs him.

“I don’t tell you this enough,” Dean said quietly, barely even audible over the sound of running water. “But. I…”

Cas blinked and pushed off the wall, and Dean didn’t bother to finish his sentence. Cas’s fingers hooked around his cuff. Dean turned, reached back out for him, and pulled him in tight to his body for a hug. The water was still running and the sink was filling up too high like the drain couldn’t quite keep up with the heavy flow, and Dean just held Cas tighter.

Dean could count on one hand the number of times they’d done this. It was a nice feeling; he wasn’t sure what the reason for staying away was. He lowered his head down onto his shoulder, squeezing into the space between his neck and his chest, and sighed with his whole being. He went nearly lax against him, eyes on the brink of overflow, just like the bathroom sink. “If I’m ever a dick to you, remind me of this moment,” he mumbled into his shoulder.

“You’re never like that,” Cas promised, and Dean thought his voice was a little rougher too.

They pulled back, and then they were kissing. Castiel’s puffy, chapped lips were sliding over his like he thought Dean would break, and Dean’s hands clutched at his biceps, holding him still as he opened up to him. It was tender, and fragile, and it was a little weird to be kissing his best friend but Dean felt so warm afterwards that he thought that maybe he could get used to it.

They didn’t talk about it. Dean gave Castiel one more tight squeeze and then moved around him to exit the bathroom. Cas moved inside to let him pass, and then he shut the door behind him.

Flushed and dizzy, Dean was playing with his loose tie when he nearly ran into Sam in the hallway. He was leaning against his bedroom door, a photograph in his hands: a recent one, less than two weeks ago. Halloween. Luis was a zombie; Jess was a nurse.

Dean watched Sam look down at the photograph, giving no indication that he’d seen what Dean and Cas were doing, and lifted his head. The tear tracks on his cheeks were fresh. His lip quivered when he looked up at Dean.

Dean squared his shoulders, and Sam took a shaky breath.

“I think I need to get away for a while.”


	6. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter! There's some sexy times in here, just so you know...

SIX MONTHS LATER

Dean was trying to multitask between wiping the grease off his hands and opening the front door at the same time. It didn’t go too well: his fingers kind of slipped on the knob.

“Dean?”

Dean shoved the rag into his back pocket, frowning down at the dirt under his nails. “Yeah, Cas, it’s me,” he called out to wherever his roommate was hiding.

Roommate? Buddy? Boyfriend? Wasn’t really clear.

“Oh, good. I’m starving.” Cas suddenly appeared from another room, converging with Dean in the kitchen. “How was your day?” he asked distractedly, pulling the orange juice out of the fridge and considering it for a moment before taking a glass down from the cabinet.

Sam had yelled at him a few weeks ago after he caught Cas drinking out of the carton, and Castiel never made the same mistake again.

“Fine,” Dean said, shrugging. He pulled a box of pasta out of the pantry and put his hand on Cas’s hip to steer him out of the way of the fridge. They had leftover pasta sauce in there – plus, fresh onions – that Dean was more than willing to work with. “The usual, I guess. You?”

Castiel shrugged and placed the carton of juice back once Dean had moved out of his way. “The same.”

Dean hummed and got a large pot out from under their silverware drawer. “Can you fill this with water, please?” he asked, handing it over. Castiel took it easily, fingers brushing against Dean’s as he did.

It still set a fire burning in him, and Dean tried to control the flush that spread up the tips of his ears.

God, it hadn’t always been like that, had it? He and Cas had kissed at Sam’s apartment and suddenly everything was different. They’d been sleeping together since then – not every night, they were careful to keep it from Sam, mostly because they didn’t know how to explain it to themselves much less to Dean’s baby brother. Not even the having sex part, but the fragile new intimacy of their shared spaces; sometimes Dean would lie awake at night just _holding_ Cas, tuck his head close behind his ear and breathe deep.

Other than that, not much was all that different from it was before. He and Cas still watched TV together, still went out to the diner on Thursdays when their lunch breaks matched up, still cooked together on the nights they didn’t get take out, still argued over whose turn it was to clean the bathroom.

It just felt more… More.

Dean turned resolutely to snag the cutting board and got to work dicing the onions. “Could you add some of those tomatoes, too? I think that’s been in there for a while,” Castiel requested, gesturing to the Tupperware full of sauce. Dean nodded, snatching a can of whole tomatoes out of the pantry, and turned to find Cas waiting with the can opener already in hand.

The pot was on the stove, a low flame flickering beneath it, and Cas just took the can from Dean and began to open it for him. “Will Sam be home for dinner?” he asked as he attacked the aluminum.

Dean nodded. “He should be, yeah, but he’s going to be a little late. Adler’s got him working over time today.”

Sam’s dickhead of a boss would wring the poor kid dry if he had his way. When Sam said he needed to get away, Dean helped him grab a gig as a tax intern at Sandover Bridge & Iron just down the road, because some of the higher execs come to Dean personally with requests to work on classic car restoration and several owed Dean huge favors. Dean had no doubt they’d offer him a full time job in the fall, but whether he’d take it or not was up to him.

“Mm,” Cas hummed in consideration. “Which bowl?” he asked, opening up the cabinet.

“Blue one,” Dean requested. Cas pulled it down from the shelf and dumped the leftover sauce into it, followed by the chunks of tomato he’d sliced up.

“I’ve been thinking about pasta all week,” Cas confessed as he stuck the large bowl in their considerable microwave.

Dean smirked a little. “Oh yeah? So I made a good choice.”

“Mhm.” A pair of arms snaked around Dean’s waist, and his knife froze in midair. “You always seem to know just what I need,” Cas murmured. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. He wasn’t sure if that buzzing in his head was sensory overload or just the working of the microwave.

Dean set down the knife and twisted in Cas’s grip so that they were pressed chest to chest, and he could see his eyes. They were positively adoring. Sleepy too, like Cas had woken up from a nap when Dean got home. And the blissful smile Cas had on his face was absolutely contagious.

He’d left his reading glasses on that night and they nudged up his face when Dean bent down to kiss him. They were sloppy in their content, teeth clacking together and hands wandering, but it was the nicest ending to a day that Dean could have imagined to be wrapped up in the arms of someone who cared for him.

Cas pulled back from him abruptly, and Dean whined a little in his throat. “That pot’s going to boil over,” he gasped out.

Dean tore out of Castiel’s grip to dim the flame and snap the pasta into the water. It sizzled for a moment, and Dean stirred it around with a wooden spoon. “Can you get me the –”

Castiel already held the bottle of Canola oil tight in his palm.

Now Dean swears by this: a few drops of oil in the pot and the pasta will never stick together, and will always have a good flavor. His mom used to do it. The fact that Cas remembers this important step every time is one of his favorite things about him.

He took the bottle from him slowly and just stared at Castiel, who stared right on back.

“I love you,” Dean blurted.

A slow smile spread across Cas’s face until he was full out beaming, crinkly-eyed and gummy. Dean had never said anything to that effect before, and now he was doing it over a pot of boiling water.

Cas took a slow breath in and composed himself a little better. “I know,” he said very matter-of-factly. The microwave dinged as if on cue, and Cas turned away to attend to it.

He wrapped a dishtowel around the side of the chipped ceramic bowl so he wouldn’t burn his hands taking it out, and didn’t meet Dean’s eyes as he placed it on the table. Dean, slack jawed, smirked a little. “Did you just Han Solo me?” he asked suspiciously. “Dude, that’s so not cool,” he said, turning back to the pot and stirring again.

“I love you too,” he heard behind him.

Dean whirled around, and Cas was already taking down the plates, eyes fixed anywhere but on Dean, and it was driving him bananas. “You do?”

“Of course. I always have,” Cas replied, still not looking at him. He looked down at the plate in his hands and frowned at it. “If Sam isn’t coming back until later, maybe we should have sex,” he said, glancing up at Dean for his opinion. “It is rude to eat without him, after all.”

Dean, lost in the majesty of this beautiful creature before him, threw his head back and laughed. He grabbed blindly for Cas, and pulled him into another loose hug. “Don’t ever change, Cas,” he muttered into his hair.

“Alright,” Cas agreed, nuzzling into Dean’s neck. “I was serious though.”

“I know you were,” Dean said with a grin. He cleared his throat and let go of him. “So, uh, let me just finish here and then we can…?”

Cas smirked a little. “Good, yes. Sam will appreciate that we waited for him.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Bet he won’t appreciate the cum stains on the couch.”

“Who says we’re doing it on the couch?”

“I thought you were in a hurry,” Dean said, waving a hand. _God damn it, cook faster,_ he thought furiously at the pot.

“A watched pot never boils,” Castiel informed him. “And just because we’re in a hurry doesn’t mean we can’t also indulge ourselves.”

Dean groaned lightly and stirred furiously a few times to break up the clumps. As excited as he was for the sex, Cas didn’t seem to understand how positively _monumental_ what he just said was. What did he mean by _I always have_? It was something Dean could barely understand, the concept of a private and infinite forever between the two of them. It was like learning gravity existed: how could such a powerful, intense thing be there without Dean knowing? How could he have ignored it for so long?

He cleared his throat again.

“Hey, um. You can totally shut me down on this one but… is this,” Dean tried, gesticulating ambiguously. “I mean, are we…” he sighed. “I’m not just making this up?”

Castiel shook his head patiently. “I do love you, Dean. And I enjoy being with you. I don’t see why anything has to change.”

Dean flushed a little and smiled into the bowling water. “You’re with me then, huh?”

“Of course I’m with you,” Cas replied fondly.

_Getting seated next to the weird blue-eyed kid in history, studying together after hours in the library while Sammy ran around in the fantasy section, serving detention side by side in the gymnasium, driving out to corn fields without knowing where they were going but going just the same, late night phone calls spent talking about God, sneaking out, coming home…_

Cas had been with him for all the most important moments of his life. And he was right; Dean didn’t see a reason why that had to change either.

He grinned a little wider and clicked off the burner. “Can you get the –”

Cas already had the colander ready.

 

Dean drained the pasta as quickly as he could, urgency and arousal coursing through his bones. He was already half hard just thinking about the next ten minutes: pulling Cas tight, laying him down, kissing him, touching him, just –

“Ah, shit,” Dean hissed, shaking the scalding water off his wrist. _Pay attention, Winchester, one thing at a time._

Cas was leaning against the kitchen wall, arms folded impatiently. “Dean,” he beckoned.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Dean stuttered, tucking the colander full of steaming pasta into the pot he had just drained. “Ok, let’s go.”

Cas knotted both his hands in the front of Dean’s flannel and attacked his mouth, teeth scraping against his lip hungrily, six feet of muscle and coiled power. Dean sighed into the kiss, pawing at Castiel’s hips. He yanked the glasses off Castiel’s face and tossed them on the counter, fervently hoping he hadn’t accidentally scratched them in the process or Cas would have his head.

They stumbled into Dean’s bedroom and Cas closed the door behind them, slamming Dean against it so the knob dug into the fleshy part of his waist. Dean moaned, and Cas pulled his tongue up Dean’s neck. “Cas,” Dean whined, nudging his hips forward. Cas cupped him through his jeans and Dean grunted.

“Tease,” he hissed. Cas just chuckled low and dirty and got off him, hastily pulling at the buttons of his own shirt. Dean tugged his off too before snapping the button on his jeans open and yanking them down to around mid thigh before Castiel was on him again, this time pulling him towards the bed.

Miraculously, Cas was already down to his boxers; Dean was still tangled up in his jeans. Hovering over Cas in their fluffy comforter, Dean tried to kick off his jeans as gracefully as he could without breaking the incredible kiss he was currently a part of. His best friend was spread out on his back underneath him, like every hot daydream he’d had all day.

Cas smoothed his palms down Dean’s back before resting them at the top of Dean’s ass. “ _Dean,_ ” he demanded with urgency.

“I got you, baby, don’t worry,” Dean laughed against his mouth. Before he could rile Cas up any more, he had flipped them, dizzying Dean beyond belief.

Cas decided he’d had enough foreplay. “Up,” he snapped like some sort of denied, feral thing, tugging on the waistband of Dean’s boxers.

Dean lifted his hips up off the bed so Cas could strip him, and in the process gifted himself with a little additional friction. He hitched a gasp and spread his legs wider so that Cas could settle closer. “Cas…”

Cas then drew his own pair of boxers off, tossing them somewhere to the side. He was already hard too, the shape of his erection familiar, gorged and glistening. Dean groaned low and deep as Cas licked his own hand and reached down between them.

Castiel was dynamite in bed. All that unrestrained bluntness he practiced in conversation had a way of translating into sex that was sure and hard and fast and good. Dean was positive he’d never had a more overwhelming partner, and he just _couldn’t get enough_. That was just Castiel: his rock, his guide, steady when Dean all but fell apart.

It wasn’t like that this time. It was overwhelming for a different reason.

This time, Castiel touched Dean almost shyly. His free hand trailed up Dean’s side like he was truly something cherished as his spit-slick hand worked his cock and eventually trailed lower to open him up. Dean was shaking under the attention, unaccustomed to such – well, worship, is what it felt like. Their confession earlier in the kitchen and the resolution they had come to made the air heavy, wrapped them up in something other than themselves.

“Cas, come on, what’s…” Dean sighed, tilting his hips up. Cas had three fingers buried in him now, slowly rocking in and out and refusing to match Dean’s frantic, bucking pace.

Cas merely latched his teeth to the chord of Dean’s neck and bit lightly, soothing his tongue over the reddened skin. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

Dean arched his back to press himself closer to Castiel, traitorous tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.

Castiel was being so gentle, so loving, even though they were supposed to be in a hurry. Dean didn’t know where to put his hands; he just clenched one in the sheets and the other loosely in Castiel’s wreck of hair. As his breath hitched, he hooked his heels together in the small of Castiel’s back and dragged him in. Cas pressed into him, sweet and slow, and Dean’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. Cas circled his hips, met Dean’s mouth in a searing kiss, and he was a goner.

It was unhurried and torturous, indulgent and unapologetic, sharp and oversensitive and burning; hands and teeth and gasps and wide, wet eyes. It felt a lot like making love.

When Dean finally came it was like the cresting of a wave, the last sigh from a leaking balloon. With a few more snaps of his hips, Castiel came with a low moan and whispered praises.

His hands came up to cup Dean’s jaw. Coarse thumbs smeared the tears under Dean’s eyes as he tried to find his bearings. Dean kissed the tip of Cas's nose, because that was all that he could reach.

After all those years devoted to one another when it hardly even mattered, all that they had been though that past week in California, Dean finally understood that he would never stop reaching. He couldn't. He shouldn't be allowed to let this go without a fight.

“I love you too,” he murmured.

 

Sam found Dean a few hours later crouching on the fire escape with a beer and a bowl of spaghetti in his lap. He joined him wordlessly, his own dinner in hand.

“One day,” Dean said, waving his beer bottle at him. “We’ll have a porch to drink these on,” he promised. Sam smiled at him and nodded.

“You’re in a good mood,” he observed, loosening his tie.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I am.” A couple of images flashed across his memory, but they were definitely not for sharing.

Dean took a bite of his pasta and furrowed his brow. “How you doing, Sammy?” he asked casually. Cas’s Laissez-Faire Approach To Parenting™ was probably the best thing for him right now, but Dean felt like he hadn’t really talked to his brother in weeks.

Sam sighed and poked at his own dinner. Glancing up, he squinted against the harsh scarlet light of the sunset, the sharp orange beams of last light breaking over downtown Lawrence.

“You’re not still having nightmares, are you?” Dean asked tentatively.

Sam shook his head. “No, they’ve mostly gone away,” he told him honestly. When he woke up, he no longer panicked about where he was, no longer mistook the heat of his bed for the burn of a fire, no longer heard screams that weren’t his after dark.

He squinted into the light, grazing over the tops of buildings and little apartments like theirs. “I think part of getting over it means understanding that I’m never going to get over it,” he told him, twirling some pasta onto his fork. “Does that make sense?” he asked.

Sure, he still missed Jess like crazy. There were still times when he’d be hit with a profound sense of loss again and break down in the shower. He’d hear the priest from the service whispering in the dark hiss of twilight: _She’s still burning, Sam._ He still wasn’t ready to get back out into the dating pool, sorry Madison from HR.

But he had his brother back. And he had Cas, too. He had a job, and good food, and love, and he was getting better. He was getting there.

“Cas and I are together,” Dean admitted, apropos of nothing. He preoccupied himself with shoving some more pasta into his own mouth. His cheeks were bulging, and Sam just rolled his eyes. “Probably for good. Just so you know,” his brother added.

Sam laughed once under his breath. “Way to grow a pair. He’s good for you.”

“Always has been,” Dean agreed, swallowing.

There was a long pause between them as the sun kept sinking lower that let each brother ruminate on the unspoken words between them – I’m proud of you, I’m proud of _us_. “Hey, you know what? We should go on a road trip this summer. Just cut our hours and drive,” Dean said, staring off into the sunset. Nostalgia isn’t always a place, Dean thought; it’s the people you love and the time you don’t have.

Sam frowned. “Where would we go?”

“I don’t know, man, anywhere,” Dean said, shrugging. “The Grand Canyon. Cas has always wanted to see it.”

Sam nodded slowly and thought about it. He really did. He sat under a bruising, darkening sky with his older brother in their hometown with a home cooked meal in one hand and a cheap beer in the other, and for a minute everything was clear. For the first time in six months, Sam was not afraid of moving on.

“Sounds good to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done. Thanks for hanging in there, guys. Thanks for taking that little journey with me. RIP Jessica Moore, and good luck Winchesters!  
> Feel free to come discuss any timestamps, headcanons, or prompt requests [here on my tumblr](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com) if you want to.


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